Author: melodyswatson

I always struggle with these "About Me" sections. Basically, if you want to know about the REAL Melody, read my blog entries. Fuck, this may be the most honest place that I have ever been. Smooches, cooches! -Melody

We’re in the process of trying to sell our house. I’m not really sure WHY other than right now is a “seller’s market”. Oh, my god. Just typing out that first sentence and my chest starts to tighten, yet again, over all the bullshit that this process is. From the beginning I heard that selling is SO much easier than the buying of a house. Fuck you. That’s a lie. If you are ever in the homeowner position and find yourself attempting to sell? Prepare yourself for day after day of nothing but stress. Stress and anger. Stress and exhaustion. Then, for an extra helping of good times; just go ahead a plop another scoop of stress on the motherfucker.

Now that I have all of that off my chest, let me say that I am SURE there are people that can see the reasoning behind selling a home in Southern California. We are PRIME real estate. Yes, there are dollars to be made. That, my friends, is what is holding me on at this point.

Despite having brought our youngest(and last) son straight from the hospital to this home, I have no emotional attachments to this house. I love this house but, if someone comes along and can see themselves here, two words… “Pay me”. Make this bitch your own. Paint it pink with purple trim. (There’s no HOA so, you could actually do that.) There’s five bedrooms and three bathrooms, a three car garage and in a centralized location for any commuter’s needs. Take it. But, also take note that there is a super annoying neighborhood kid that I fear, at some point, become the neighborhood peeping tom.

On the plus side, we have two amazing friends that just happened to be willing to deal with our ridiculously fucked up family life and take on the chore of being on our team regardless. And, trust that they have been above and beyond throughout this thing. (If you need an agent and/or a staging/interior expert in So Cal, let me know.)

I am not a patient person by any stretch of the imagination. I get flustered easily and when shit doesn’t stick to a schedule, I get pissed. I don’t find myself mildly irritated like normal people, I get fucking angry. And without sounding snide or overconfident, honestly? After speaking with a few people that just recently sold and bought in our area, a few friends that are or have been in real estate business… I thought that our house would be on the market for a week, two weeks… Not going on two fucking months. And, yes. I completely understand that some houses stay on the market for years, got it. And, I should be completely grateful that we have a home that is ours. Well, I’m sorry. That is what nice, politically correct minded people do. I am angry over getting in this and being over my head. I’m angry that all of my things are shoved into boxes in our garage and replaced with someone else’ things. Admittedly, more beautiful and more tasteful things than I have but, still; not ours. Just in the last two weeks have I began pulling down some of the staging props and sending them home with my girl friend. Slowly, I am bringing touches of our family back in from the garage. But, always second guessing each item that crosses the threshold. So many “rules” when you want to sell your home. “Paint this color”, “Take down photos”, “No religious/spiritual items”… It’s Halloween time. I called my friend to ask if it was advisable or not to place decor up. (For the record, he said decor was a-okay. lol) I mean, you never know what you have may offend a potential buyer. People are fucking weird, yo. Trust me; I am a people.

My husband was in a motorcycle accident at the end of July. He just recently had surgery on his foot and has been on strict, “no weight bearing” instruction from his surgeon and ortho team. He’s angry because he can’t go anywhere without me driving him, still can’t shower normally and he doesn’t even see the doctor again until October 30th. This wasn’t something that either of us were expecting when we put the house on the market. Not failing to make mention of the fact that he has to deal with HIS frustrations as well as my frustrations. And, I am not a nice frustrated person to be around and neither is he. Not even the happy ending pic I try to paint in my head of us as a family on the beaches of Maui, is enough to push me through at this point. (Which by the way, we will be making happen once this motherfucker sells.)

We have three boys that all have very different needs and parenting styles to meet those needs. I’m an asshole. He’s an asshole. The kids are assholes and mostly because they are feeding off of us. He and I are being assholes to each other and trust, with our personalities… it ain’t pretty. Neither one of us are “nice people”; especially during some stressful shit like this. Oh, let me not forget to mention that I am a recovering alcoholic and the husband stopped drinking the day before his accident. This my friends, is how ‘murder for hire’ ads end up on Craigslist.

This weekend was like, the 6th open house that we have done in less than two months. This weekend, was also the first time that we had what appears (potentially) to be an offer on the house. (After lowering the asking price an almost offensive amount, I might add.) I just want this to be done. I want a “yes/no” as to whether we have wasted all this time and energy, all this money and our friends’ time, energy and money as well. Either there is someone that is interested in the house or there isn’t. Can I put my shit back on the walls? What the fuck are we doing here? I need for the added tensions to go and for our marriage and our family to be somewhat “normal” again. I am physically and mentally done.

But, for right now… I have to decide whether to go back and proofread this to see if anything that I wrote makes sense or to go and shower so that I can be at the AA meeting tonight with all these goddamned pumpkin spice, mini muffins in tow.

It’s amazing the little bits of ‘wisdom’ that you pick up in the rooms of AA.

About a week ago, a guy took his 13 year chip(?) and as usual, they have you say your name and how you did it. (did it= stayed sober)

He spoke for quite awhile but, he said something that has been reverberating in my thoughts since that night.

This man was speaking of his sponsor(in AA) and told of a conversation that he was having about being “poor” and that he thought being sober meant everything would be working better in his life and here he was still poor after achieving sobriety.

I paraphrase but, fuck it. I love quotes so, I’m using the marks. lol

Sponsor: “I bet you have a nice house.”

Man: “Yeah, it’s pretty nice.”

Sponsor: “I bet that you sleep in a nice, comfortable bed.”

Man: “Well, yes.”

Sponsor: “Are you enjoying that Starbucks that you are drinking?”

Man: “Motherfucker. I’m not poor.”

That may not seem like much to most people. But, it struck me. I say that we are ‘poor’ all the time. ‘Broke’ I tend to use more often but, regardless; we are not poor. I am writing this on a $1k laptop and my $2k Mac Book is sitting in the drawer. We have a 3000sf home. I sleep on a $1k mattress. I have a brand new car that I put my kids in to drive to wherever; we are not poor. I have a husband that stayed when it would have been much easier to walk away. I have children that (most of the time) love me.

I do not write these things in a boastful manner. I write these these to remind myself that we are NOT poor. I am one of the most fortunate people that I know. I write these things to remind myself to stay HUMBLE and ACCOUNTABLE.

Saturday night at AA, there was this kid that came up to me. His heart is so pure that it radiates from his face, his hands and his willingness to give astounds me. I wrote previously about being asked to lead a meeting a few weeks ago. It was an 11th Step meeting. If you are not involved or not familiar with the 12 Steps that we alcoholics go on and on about; the 11th Step states:

“Sought through prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with [God], as we understood him, praying only for knowledge of his will for us and the power to carry that out”.

After I fought with my head and heart on whether or not I could lead that meeting, I decided to go forward and tell MY story. That I don’t have this “higher power” that everyone speaks of. I never have. I wait for signs. I scream at the sky sometimes chasing after something that I really don’t believe is there.

After the meeting, this kid walks up to me and thanks me for leading. And he does something that most people wouldn’t really have the balls to do; he asked if he could pray with me. Not FOR me. Not AT me. WITH me. I was reluctant to say the least. But, I could just tell that this was something he was truly moved to do so, who am I to tell him “Thanks but um, no thanks.”? So, I agreed. He then told me that he wanted Watson (my husband) to pray with us also. Because once you are married, you are one in his God’s eyes.

I went outside and got Watson and I KNOW that he could see the “I really want to roll my eyes at this kid” look on my face. We all held hands and he prayed. Out loud. He prayed so unselfishly that I was standing there and looking at his face and wanting to just hug the pain of addiction out of him. Then I realized that the pain that I thought I saw is not his pain at all anymore.

Now, back to Saturday night. I sat at the table prior to the meeting beginning to start and this kid came and sat next to me. He wanted to know if God had spoken to me yet. This beautiful young man that is most likely young enough to be my son, was worried more about me than his struggles with his own addiction or whatever problems might be in his path right now. And with the heaviest heart that I have felt in a long time, I told him “No, Tristan”. He just smiled and asked if I wanted him to pray with me again. I politely declined this time. He didn’t push, he didn’t preach. He continued smiling and told me that was okay but, he really hoped that I didn’t mind if he continued to pray FOR me. Not at all, young man. Please do.

Here’s the deal; the rooms of Alcoholic Anonymous are many. The faces of alcoholics in those rooms are millions. There is so much wisdom that those rooms encompass. And not all of it revolves around booze. It’s a fellowship. It’s a friendship of drunks and addicts; a friendship of those caught in the crossfire of alcoholism. It’s a room where no matter what your story is, there is someone that you will relate to. Someone that you will learn from. Someone that will inevitably tell YOUR story.

If you are an alcoholic or if you know someone that is an alcoholic or an addict, check those rooms out. You may think that you don’t belong in there with “those people”. Reality check… you ARE one of THOSE people. You just don’t realize it until you hear that you are NOT the only one struggling. And believe it or not, there are many of THOSE people that have so many more problems than you. There are so many more of THOSE people that ARE poor. Not just financially but, emotionally, physically and if you are a believer, spiritually poor.

I guess that’s all I have for now. But, if you held out and read this whole thing, thanks. You’re probably one of the ones that I owe an incredible debt of appreciation to.

I have worked so hard, slacked off, had three kids, battled alcoholism on a daily basis for the last 8 years and try to be the person that people want to have in their lives.

I’ve been told that I have offended. I have been told that I have disappointed. I have been told that I’m a good person. I’ve been told that I should be MORE selfish in regards to what I want and I need.

I have put myself first. I have put myself last. I’ve walked away from so many toxic relationships/friendships way later in the game than I should have.

I have compromised my morals, I have made excuses for them and myself at times to keep those same people in my life because well, I lack the brain function to walk the fuck away and not close a door but, slam that fucker shut.

I have given when I had nothing left; mentally, physically, emotionally and financially. I have given support to people but when I needed support; none was offered.

I started saying “NO” and people started to widen the divide.

I try and be a good friend. A good mom. A good wife. I’m honest most of the time. I don’t cheat or steal.

I guess there is no point to this other than I am too goddamned lazy to put pen to journal and I just needed to write this shit down.

It’s funny being told time and time again how “strong” that I am. When in actuality; not a single thing could be farther from the truth. I can BE strong when I have to be but, after so long; I’m here to tell you, just keeping up the facade of strength is exhausting.

I talk too much. I swear too much. I am too “harsh”.

I should find Jesus. (never knew he was hiding but, what the fuck ever) I should find something to “center” me.

I should meditate. I should “just breathe”. I shouldn’t take “all those xanax” and in the same conversation I have heard, “Did you take your meds today?”.

Well, I also shouldn’t be dealt the “FUCK YOU, MELODY” hand every time that I allow myself to be positive.

I envy those that can see the good in things. I envy those that are content in their ability to sit back and look pretty. I envy those that are happy with who they are even though, come on now… we all know that 99% those same people are full of shit. I envy the shit out of those that can be fake as fuck because, I definitely lost out on that trait somewhere.

I have fought for fifteen years to be the person that I thought I was supposed to be. And, every time there has been something thrown in my way; I dealt with it. But, there’s a point when enough is enough and it’s time to concede.

Last week, I was so stoked about seeing my doctor and even more stoked when he told me that it was a good thing that he doesn’t like to just give up and he was re-writing my referral for my surgery.

And, within 48 hours… all was shot to shit. Again.

So, longer story short… my surgery isn’t going to happen. And, all this strength that people seem to think that I have; there’s none left. Not even enough to fake it.

I guess that there is something that I have done or haven’t done, said or haven’t said that is coming full circle on me.

Whatever. I have so much resentment in me right now that I can (and I hate this word) literally feel my blood pressure rising each time something so much as reminds me of this shit hand that I have to play right now.

I guess you get what you give and since according to some in my life, I’m mean, a bully, a disappointment, too harsh, too cold, don’t listen(which translates to “didn’t do what you wanted me to because trust, I heard everything you said.), I need peace, I need to forgive.

Most people also have no clue that I am in a therapist’s office at least once a week with phone sessions that I can’t count; trying to work on learning to forgive or at least trying to the grasp the simple concept of “letting go”. To live in the moment.

This morning, I had to cancel an appointment with my actual psychiatrist that I had made in JUNE. So, that means no meds until I see her again. But, I am sure that the reasoning wouldn’t matter to those that will inevitably ask, “Did you take your meds today?”.

I’m killing myself. (NOT LITERALLY. Calm your tits.) That’s it. I finally have the answer and it truly has been in front of me the entire time.

As far as I can remember, I have pushed back. I pushed back against my parents, friends, ‘the norm’ and especially religion. Let’s not even go there.

I’m still not a religion kind of girl. I don’t believe in ‘God’ however, I do believe that there are powers that are higher than myself in this universe. Now, here’s where it get’s tricky. I am an alcoholic in recovery. I am an alcoholic that got sober with the aid of Alcoholics Anonymous. Alcoholics Anonymous is a ‘God’ based, Christian centered recovery program. I think you can see where I am going with this.

I struggle with the ‘Higher Power’ aspect of thee program also. Yeah, you can call it ‘God’ or ‘Higher Power’ but, we all know that it’s based on ‘God’. “The Man”. “The Holy Father”. And frankly, I have a problem with that.

It’s taken me 8 years to find my way back into the rooms of AA and listening to the journeys of other alcoholics that struggled with the same thing to finally understand; I am more confused than fucking ever. All this talk of getting on your knees and praying every morning and every night but, it doesn’t have to be to ‘God’. It can be to anything. Really? ANYTHING? This leaves the realm of interpretation open ended. I like being quiet in the morning; therefore, I wake up extremely early, make my coffee, walk outside and sit. I sit there and listen to the quiet. I don’t meditate. For lort’s sake, I am an adult ADD sufferer; that’s just too much to ask. But, does this make quiet my ‘higher power’? It’s an utterly ridiculous concept. But, one that I am going to roll with for right now.

And if you have stayed thus far, thank you. These posts tend to be chaos at best sometimes. Honestly?, I totally blame ADD and my therapist says that’s A-Okay. 😉

As I sat outside this morning with my coffee and my Daily Reflections book, it hit me that here I am; I am in a house that is constantly loud.(and, I love it most of the time) I walk outside and it is constantly loud. I go into the grocery store and it’s loud. What the fuck am I doing in a place that is so loud when the only thing that I truly want is to be quiet? And then, I started crying. All this time that I have tried to prove that I was not a “country girl” to others and all this time, I could have been quiet. I could have just accepted that I truly want a place in the middle of nowhere (but, as close as possible to Target and a Starbucks, thank you very much) where I can sit and be quiet. I want to be able to scream in frustration and not worry about the neighbors calling 9-1-1, or sit outside when it rains and not smell oil and asphalt. I am totally not talking Texas Chainsaw Massacre locale or shit like that; fuck you. I need people also. But, right now and at this stage in my life; I need quiet more. And, I think that our family needs quiet.

We are all overly stressed, overly medicated, overly in debt, overly every-fucking-thing. My husband is nearing the end of his military career and after 20+ years, he deserves some quiet.

About a month ago, we made the decision to put our house on the market. It’s been a back and forth, confusing and less than quiet time for me and it seems like something is always in the path of this taking place because this fucking place is still not on the market. HAHAHA

But, yesterday it hit me. I truly believe that shit always happens for a reason. I don’t always like the reason and admittedly, I am not a patient person so, if the process of the reasoning takes awhile, I am not always onboard with this. But, whatever; I digress. Yesterday as I was chatting via text with a friend (her husband is also our agent) about how our scheduling a dinner date is always getting fucked; it hit me. Duh, Melody. Remember? Shit happens for a reason. So, as of today I am going to be quiet. I am going to TRY and let things go as they are intended and not bitch TOO much about it taking so long. The keyword here being “TRY”.

So, all this time and all these years and all I really NEEDED was quiet. What I WANTED is killing me. I love my life for the most part. I love our home, I love the friends that I have here, I love the boys’ schools. I mean, I could be thinner or younger, I could be a millionaire and then you wouldn’t be reading this because I would be in my quiet; in Hawaii but, right now I’m gonna settle for quiet on my front porch. I’m going to take my 0430 coffee and quiet time and roll with it until our family’s reason shows up. I just wish it would hurry the fuck up. lol

Today, as many other days, I found myself preaching to the proverbial choir; my children. As I always make an attempt at doing, I tried to speak with reflection on past discussions and with my best attempt at calm through my clinched teeth and forced patience.

I’m going to make this short and sweet because it hit me, really hit me hard in the gut, that I truly hoped my kids learned something from me during their years at home.

All kids do it. They sit there and “listen” as a parent preaches at them. Tells them what is expected. Explains why they are being punished. Blah, blah, blah. The whole time, thinking in their little child brains, “Is she ever going to just shut up? Maybe if I sit really still and look at her forehead she will think that I’m paying attention and shut up.” I did the same thing. I’m wise to their game; only this time, I’m the old lady that won’t shut up and I just. keep. talking. (Sometimes on purpose.)

This time was different. This time, something would be taken away from my nearing 41 year old, mother of three, gibberish. (And by the way, not going to be short and sweet as I had hoped) This time, I was speaking of a box. An imaginary box but, a box nonetheless. This box, like many other boxes, begins empty. This box then is filled with tiny pieces of well, shit. Yes. Let’s use shit as a prime example. A box is only capable of holding so much shit and then, it’s done. It’s filled with all these little bits of shit and there is now no room left for the big pieces of shit. It’s nearing impossible to carry without help. Now, let’s equate that box of little bits of shit to one’s ability to handle all “the little things” that we are told our entire lives that we should let go.

One can only handle so much before all the little things turn into one big solid THING and its a whole lot harder to rid yourself of that heavy, huge box than one that is halfway or even a quarter of the way full. So, for every little thing that is kept out of the box, there is room for something else. I know, I know. All this talk of shit and boxes; all this is confusing me so, my kids were probably fucked from the get-go.

At this point, the look of confusion is too much to bear and I start giving examples such as small chores. One of which I had assigned them in the past was wiping the table down after every meal. This is not a hard chore. This is not a cumbersome or time consuming chore. It is three (sometimes) times a day and one can accomplish this in two minutes. Three times a day x two minutes = six minutes. Six minutes from their day. Could they spare SIX minutes in order to rid that box of some of the little shit so that I didn’t lose MY shit? The look on their faces was that of, “Well, of course. It’s ONLY six minutes.”

The conversation continued on as I tried to impress upon them that I am NOT trying to be the bitch mom. However, I had tried to be the nice mom, the bitch mom, the friend mom, the spoiling mom. I have been the yelling mom. I have been the begging mom and the pleading mom. I have been the bargaining mom(which I swore I would never be) and I have been the Southern-beat-your-ass-with-a-belt mom. I have taken all of their things. I have donated and given away, sold and trashed their shit. What would it take?

Here lies where I bring up THE stupidest rule as mom that I have EVER heard but, have been forced to well, enforce. The “All for one, one for all” rule. If one of you acts stupid, all of you get punished. My kids ages are 12, 11 and 4. Take a minute and let that soak in. Now, isn’t that “rule” the most asinine shit you have ever heard of? But, it’s the only thing that works. The 4 year old fucks up when you’re with him, all three get punished. The oldest one steals snacks, everyone loses that particular snack. I think that you get the idea. If you are a parent and reading that, is that not the most ridiculous shit? Hell, if you are not a parent and read that; fucking ridiculous. It makes no sense but, it. fucking. works.

Now, here is where it hit me that I truly hope that one day in their lives, they will have that “A-ha” moment that I spoke of earlier. I looked at the eldest and told him that eventually he will have a job, maybe a home of his own. It may be a first job working at a fast food joint with a table that he has to wipe down for a customer or it may be his own table that he needs to wipe off to feed his own kids. I hope that if it’s him or if it’s one of his brothers; in that one second of thought, I hope it goes back to my words from today; “…it was only six minutes”. Six minutes that can help another person more than they will ever know. Six minutes that may just take a lot of that little shit out of someone’s box and make it a little lighter for them to carry.

I have written speeches for local business owners (friends) however, had I been asked to actually say them OUTLOUD?

HAHAHAHAHAHAHA… No.

Who was the speech teacher in high school? Track her down. Ask her if she remembers the 200 pound student that cold passed out on her floor when it came time to present.

So, after all that; I actually spoke at AA last night.

The topic was “What did you do today to stay sober?”

#1 I hate that fucking question. Normally, it means that you are an unprepared dick who shouldn’t have accepted to lead a meeting.

Moving on…

Last night when I spoke, I touched on words of persons that I came across in my first year and change of sobriety and the words that as of late, had be resonating in my head.

1. I remember sitting at Starbucks after a meeting in 2010. I was contemplating if I really WAS an alcoholic. MAYBE, I was just so severely depressed that I used it as a crutch. This woman looked at me and with all the sincerity she had said, “You know, that could be the case. Maybe you AREN’T an alcoholic. But, are you willing to take that chance to find out?”

2. There was a couple in the main AA meeting that I attended in the beginning. He was an “old timer” (years upon years sober) and she was sober for quite awhile. These are people that I respected and looked up to. I was about a year and change into my recovery and one night after a meeting, he and I were chatting about me not having a sponsor to walk me through working the steps.

His words to me, “If you don’t have a sponsor, you’ll be dead in a year.”

Challenge accepted, mother fucker. And, I never walked back into a meeting until 2015.

3. And this one, I think can apply to most any task in life; if you get comfortable and give yourself a chance to think “maybe”, you have already relapsed.

Get comfortable, get canned. Job, social circles fuck, even in the route you take home from work everyday… you name it and this can apply. If you start to get too cocky enough in anything, BOOM! You’ll find out how quickly that shit can change.

And, as the always pleasant Melody, I felt that I also needed to knock the newcomers in the room back into the harsh reality that alcoholism, like any disease/addiction, there are three levels of initial TRUE recovery;

I was checked into the hospital and in that gen pop, OR prep area where they give you all the good relaxation shit via IV. My mother went to close the privacy curtain and the nurse quickly stops her. My mom looks at her and says, “You just gave her meds to chill her out. Trust me. You WANT to close this curtain.” (The curtain remained open at the insistence of the charge nurse.)

Not moments after this and watching the Today Show with Katie Couric, I for no reason known to me, yell out “FUCK YOU, KATIE COURIC!” Dude, I have never had any issues with Katie fucking Couric before this moment. (The nurse then comes and closes not only the curtain but the door as well.)

My dad comes in and informs me that somehow he has made contact with my anesthesiologist and they went to college together. (Delta State, bitches! Home of the mighty FIGHTING OKRA!) Okay, so that should be comforting, right?

Anyway, I digress. They (Who the fuck were ‘THEY’ anyway? Who are all of those people that always roll you into an operating room?)

Rolled in and everyone is so well, happy. I guess the thought of cutting into people thrills the shit out of them. Hey, me too! Carry. The. Fuck. On.

Looking back, I could have felt like I was Ana from 50 Shades of Gray/Grey being tethered down and locked into place. Dear lort… And then it starts; they all start asking you questions to keep your mind busy while they stick needles and fuck knows what else everywhere but, this day; a question was asked that stuck in my brain and swear, I can still hear my dad’s friend saying it,

“Melody, what’s the first thing that you’re going to do after you lose all this weight?”

“I’m gonna work at mother fucking Hooters.”

The entire surgical team froze and then started laughing so hard that they were actually making me nervous. And, that was the last thing that I heard as my life changed. It’s a pretty good memory of a really dark time.